Anti-diary III
Today I lost track of my hands. They walked me down to that crease in that word that nobody has ever said. And I could no longer distinguish them from the particles of a dream. Somewhere else a mole found sight on a deserted corner and, rather than taking it underground, offered it up as food for the streetlights. The stars approved and went back to sleep. It was dark but not night. It was dark as egg. Golden dark, if it pleases. If it fits the roundness of a pebble's name. A drawstring bag, velvet and oracular, held all the vowels that had abandoned my mouth. I am crackle now. The glaze of skin separating from itself on foam made of inverted light. Ready for spooning. For skimming. For spilling over into the space found by hallucinatory hands.
Fantastical
Love it, Cassie. I hear your voice whenever I read your poems.